


Sparks of Summer

by klove0511



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Beltane, Gen, Magic, mood piece
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2020-02-26 21:38:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18725482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/klove0511/pseuds/klove0511
Summary: Rowena still keeps the old ways, superstitious as that may sound. She knows better than most what lurks in the dark. This year, she won’t be the only one who benefits.





	Sparks of Summer

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the SPN Holiday Reverse Bang over on Tumblr. It was a lot of fun, and I love the art Zaffre made. I have failed utterly to figure out how to post the art directly in my fic as I've seen others do, so head over toe the art master post to check it out! Beta'd by my lovely spouse, who makes all my stuff better.  
> Link to art masterpost on Tumblr: https://zaffrefic.tumblr.com/post/184676472923/for-the-spn-holiday-reverse-minibang-my-partner

Rowena still keeps the old ways, though she generally doesn’t talk about it. Most would call her superstitious, for celebrating something like Beltane, complete with fire and offerings, but she knows what lies in the dark better than most hunters, and the Good Folk are not to be trifled with.

The air is warm and damp, still, for the moment. There was a gentle breeze earlier which had dissipated some of the humidity. She’d been grateful for it, but she was also grateful it had stopped. Magical bonfires were difficult enough to control without adding the trouble of keeping them from setting the whole field ablaze.

She stands before the woodpile and breathes deeply. More damp than it ought to be, perhaps, what with the rain earlier, but it would burn. The smell of wood and rotting leaves fills her senses for a moment. It reminds her of fall, not spring and summer. Fitting, then, that it would burn. Out with the old and all that. Another breath, and underneath the fall smells are the rich odors of loam and new growth, budding flowers and wet grass.

She mutters a brief spell and feels the power push out of her, leaving lightning tingles through her fingers. Nothing much, this one. Just a layer to prepare the fire for the big spell work later.

She smiles. It will be her first Beltane celebration with guests in, oh, years at least. Perhaps decades. She does not, as a rule, celebrate. What she does is far too utilitarian for such a term. Set the fire, cast the spells for her protection, leave the offerings for the _Aos Sith_. No need for revelry. After all, she has no use for it as a fertility festival, and she certainly has no herds to protect. The Winchesters and their band of ruffians do not count, cows and pigs though they may be. No, she only needs the ritual for its appeasement of—and protection from—the Fae.

The sun begins to set, and her preparations are nearly complete. The whole brood would have helped, if she’d asked. But she preferred it this way, doing the heavy labor herself for once. It is, of course, the only way to make absolutely sure that everything is in its proper place before the magic begins in earnest. Her offerings are prepared, kept safe in a cooler for now. She never sets them out until after the fire is lit. Can’t be too careful; best to wait until she at least has those protective charms in place.

It feels silly, to be so frightened of the Good Folk when she is herself such a powerful witch, but she calls it sensible caution. It isn’t unheard of for a creature to snub an offering if they’re already holding a grudge against the person who left it. She won’t admit it to anyone but herself, but there are certainly more than one of the _Aos Sith_ that hold a grudge against her.

Night falls, and the hunters arrive. The Impala rumbles to a stop and the Winchesters climb out. The boy is with them, but the angel is absent. Soon enough, the rest of the herd arrives as well. She lets the excited hum of all the people fade into the background of her senses, but she enjoys it. There are precious few good memories left from her time as a young woman in Scotland, but the large village gatherings for Beltane and the like are one of them. Throwing her weight in with the Winchester tribe has benefits, whether she likes to admit it or not.

Once everyone is assembled, she reaches deep for her magic, and the wood ignites in an impressive display—if she does say so herself. Holding that thread of power, she builds on the spell she laid down earlier, wrapping the fire and smoke and all the people it touches in a protection spell that would last until the next Beltane. It won’t make any of them invulnerable, of course. She may be powerful, but even she isn’t _that_ powerful. It will, however, divert trouble from them if it can. Minor trouble, fairy trouble in particular. Certainly better than no protection at all.

After the magic is done, it is time to bring out the offerings. Hers are traditional—bread, cream, honey—while everyone else brought more unusual options. Dean had brought an extra-large pizza with everything on it and extra cheese.

There was a large flat rock to the side that she had set up earlier for the offerings, and everyone piles the food on it now. It may be her imagination, but she believes she can see a large gray figure in the shadows beyond the fire, can hear the crunching of gravel—which makes no sense in the middle of a field. Farther to the left, she can make out the form of an enormous cat. Wrong time of year for Cat Sith, but who is she to judge. Perhaps the cream drew her in. Or, given how her ears and tail perk up when Dean places the pizza on the stone, perhaps Dean knows something she does not about the Good Folk. Perhaps, if she can get him properly into his cups, she can get him to tell her later.

For now, there is singing and dancing and food. Sam teaches her about s’mores. She tells the young lasses about the magical properties of Beltane dew and how it has helped her keep her youthful appearance for the last several hundred years. She spies a few couples slipping off into the dark and wonders if they are properly aware that this is still a fertility ritual they’ve just participated in, whether _she_ has use for that aspect or not. The night is cool and clear, and for the first time in a long time she feels like she is part of something. For possibly the first time ever, she feels like that may be a good thing.


End file.
